It's hard to follow the road when you're not looking where you're going.

I got my first computer when I was twelve. It was a 686 tower hand-assembled by some man in Salem who made them in his house. I drove with my mom to the man's house to pick up the computer in our Jeep Cherokee. It was large, heavy, delicate. Its case was textured, a dingy yellowing plastic even when new. The side door to the computer popped off as he placed it in the car, and the man was apologetic for not fastening the case securely. When we got it home, my brother and I rushed to plug in the cables, connect the modem and boot it up. It was so fast. We sat there, staring at that computer thinking, "now what?" The possibilities seemed limitless. Sure, my parents owned a computer before this, but this was the first time I felt ownership of a machine.

"This is mine", I thought.

Looking back to see a straight line of focus from then to now surprises me. My twelve year old self certainly didn't predict I'd be doing what I'm doing, but my passion for computers and the web have been rather unyielding for fifteen years.

It's hard then, to relate to those that feel lost or confused about how they want to spend their life contributing to the world. Time and again, I meet, hear, or read about people with diverse passions like winemaking or sailing thinking about getting a business degree or becoming an HR person. I want to shake them and say, "take something you love and find a way to make it yours."

Why would anyone willingly spend the majority of their life doing something—or being somewhere—that doesn't fill them with passion, excite them every day, and continue them down the road they likely started as kid?